


The Paths We Choose

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:26:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1849477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the events of <i>Musketeers Don't Die Easily</i> Milady forces Porthos to make a choice.  Written initially as response to a prompt detailed at the end, this wandered away from requirements.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> <b>Warning: this story contains minor elements of sadomasochism within a violent sexual relationship.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Paths We Choose

"Olivier, open your eyes." 

It was Anne's voice that woke Athos from his wine fuelled daze. Not gentle the way it was when he dreamt of her, urging him to make love to her again and again. Here, in this harsh reality, she was ice cold with bitterness.

"I believe I told you to leave Paris," said Athos, regretting the previous evening of drunkenness which had left both he and his friends open to such exploitation.

Cold metal pressed against his temple and, instinctively, he reached for his pistol from where he'd left it on the side table, but it was gone. He looked to his left to see Aramis in the same predicament with Anne standing between them, a gun held competently in each hand. Porthos and d'Artagnan were another sorry pair of bookends, tied at wrists and ankles and watched over by a brute of a man, dressed in no obvious colours of allegiance. One of her private thugs no doubt.

"Leave us," said Anne to the guard. "We have business to discuss."

What business, wondered Athos, exchanging a worried look with the others as the big man shuffled out of the room. Anne was supposed to be gone. His torment was meant to be over. "I showed you mercy."

She laughed and the sound was pretty and girlish, reminding Athos, as always, of a time when he’d loved her more than life. 

"I can show mercy also," she said. "To one of you at least." She looked at the two men who were propped against the wall. "D'Artagnan, which of your friends shall I save? Say nothing and I'll shoot them both."

"I've played enough of your games." D'Artagnan spoke through gritted teeth and Athos knew he was working feverishly to undo the knots that bound him.

"Then you, Porthos, have the honour of choosing," said Anne. "But first ask yourself whether my promises have ever been empty ones."

Faced with such an impossible decision Porthos stared at the floor. "I won’t answer."

"Will you save Athos or Aramis?"

"I won’t choose between them,” he said, his voice an angry rumble.

"Athos or Aramis?"

"No."

"Athos or Aramis?" she continued, her fingers tightening on both triggers and, weakened perhaps from the overindulgence of alcohol, Porthos broke, suddenly and emotionally.

"Aramis. I choose Aramis, God forgive me."

It was the answer Athos had both longed for and dreaded. He was distraught that his last memory on earth would be of Porthos at the edge of despair. That he'd been the one to bring him to such a state was unthinkable.

Anne leant in close and laughed. "Do you really believe I’d offer you something you desire so much, husband?" She backed away in the direction of the door, both guns still aimed true. "You were the least loved by your family at La Fère and it seems you are the least loved amongst your friends. It's good that you prefer your own company, _Athos_ , for no one will keep it with you."

Delighted by her victory she left the room and, without a moment's hesitation, Athos chased after her, catching up to her as she was about to enter the waiting carriage. 

Incandescent with rage he grabbed her, hauled her against the wall of the inn and ripped away the riband from about her neck, replacing it with his hand. He didn't care that this was a public place, that he would be taken to trial and executed for her murder. He must squeeze the life out of her and stop her from corrupting anything else before it was too late. She’d already spoiled d'Artagnan and broken Porthos.

This close to death she smiled up at him and he breathed in a cloud of jasmine so noxious it brought tears to his eyes. "You can't kill me, Olivier," she gasped, the cartilage in her throat working against his skin. "The same way I can't kill you. You may have removed my locket but I'm still _here_." She pressed her palm against his heart and he ached at her touch.

This had nothing to do with a necklace. She was the anchor weighing him down and he would never be free of her. Still with a hand to her neck he leant forward and, hating himself for it, he kissed her, biting angrily at red lips which parted to welcome him. She raised her leg, thigh pressing against his cock, and if it weren't for the voices of his friends calling for him then he would have lost all reason and fucked her right there in the street.

"Go, Anne," he said, releasing his hold on her and he could feel the desperation building. "Leave Paris. Leave us alone."

Wrapping the taffeta cloak tight around her small frame she stepped daintily into the carriage and, without another word, tapped on the woodwork to signal the driver to go.

Athos watched until she was out of sight, wondering, not for the first time, how he would ever manage to live with, or without her.

"Is she still here?" said Porthos, emerging from the doorway and looking up and down the street. "I'll kill her with my bare hands."

"I tried that myself," said Athos with a weak smile. “Didn’t quite manage it.”

Porthos grasped him by the shoulders and, though he had no desire for such contact, Athos felt churlish to pull away from it. He must reek of Anne’s scent.

"The choice that I made. I want to expl-"

"Think nothing of it," said Athos brusquely. "You and Aramis are old friends."

Inching away from Porthos' grip he was clear for just a moment when arms descended about both their shoulders. 

"Let this be a lesson to us all," said Aramis, pulling the men to him. "However unlucky in love we might be, we must never again drink ourselves into such a stupor that we risk our friendship and our lives."

There was more talking done on the way home, but Athos paid little attention to what was said, too busy wondering how to extricate himself from the web his wife was weaving tighter and tighter around him. He felt suffocated, sick with despair, and, disturbed by the loud exclamation of his _nom de guerre_ , looked about him in confusion.

"Athos!" It was d'Artagnan speaking, staring at him with worried eyes.

How had he come to be in Aramis' lodgings? He had no memory of the journey. "I need wine and sleep in that order," he said slowly, by way of explanation. They’d known of his drinking problems. Now they knew of his marital ones. There were no secrets left to tell.

 

\---

 

When they were next on duty Athos was called immediately to the captain's office. He wondered idly, as he trudged up the steps, whether he’d been reported for his blatant attempt to take Milady de Winter's life. If he'd succeeded he would, without doubt, be facing the noose this time rather than the firing squad: a more fitting end for the disgraced Comte de la Fère.

Instead Treville looked at him with misplaced compassion and Athos was filled with the desire to escape. What was it with these men, wanting to dissect every event and discuss every feeling? Could they not be more soldierly in their discipline?

"D'Artagnan told me what happened with Milady. He says you've barely spoken a word since."

Athos stood to attention, blank faced and hard eyed. "This was personal business between myself and my wife, Sir. I don't see that I need to speak of it to anyone but her."

Treville frowned at him. "True enough, but you can at least speak of other matters. Never forget that you’re a valued member of this regiment. Porthos is concerned that-"

"Why, for God's sake, is Porthos concerned?" interrupted Athos, his patience, once worn thin, now lost completely. “It doesn't bother me so why should this be of importance to him or to you? If I were in your position I'd be far more _concerned_ that four of your Musketeers were so inebriated they were no longer fit to defend themselves." 

"I was just coming to that," said Treville grimly. Leaving his seat and walking to the balustrade he called the other three men in to join Athos for what turned out to be a dressing down of biblical proportions.

 

\--- 

 

It _did_ bother Athos of course. How could it not? Anne was right in every way. He was unloved by his family--for what reason he had never been sure--and, despite the emphatic display of affection on the part of his friends, Porthos' words had rung true. The most unsettling thing of all, however, was that his wife, the only person who had ever truly loved him, now loathed every particle of his being, admittedly with good reason.

The first summons he received from her left Athos in a quandary. He could go to their rendezvous with the intention of killing her. He could bring his friends along and, together, they would make certain that she left France for good. Or, with the cardinal now out of the picture, he could confide in Captain Treville and ask him what action should best be taken.

Instead he met Anne as instructed, alone and lacking in murderous intent, at a boarding house in Rouen. She took him to bed and punished him with cruel words and violent ways until he was bruised and bleeding, striped from candle wax and stripped raw from the whole sorry mess.

“I don’t want this and neither do you,” she said, her expression one of anger as she leant forward to stain his mouth with painted lips. But even as she was tearing at him with sharp fingernails she begged, over and over again, that he fuck her. Once she’d finally finished hurting him he slid inside the comfort of her body, panting out her name as she raised her legs and bore down on him. It was, in its own tortured way, still love.

“We’ll die from each other,” she said afterwards, feeding him sips of laudanum to slake his thirst and ease his pain. “An absence or an overdose. It makes no difference.”

 

\---

 

With her enemies either silenced or departed Anne wormed her way back into favour at court, by means of the usual coquettish tactics.

The Musketeers were on duty when she was presented to the King and Queen as newly betrothed to the Marquis de Conflans. There were mutterings of course, but no one dared cause an outburst. Not even the outspoken Madame de Chevreuse.

Athos wasn’t certain who should be more humiliated: him as cuckolded husband or her oblivious fiancé. It was when Anne paraded her son in front of the royal couple that Athos finally knew who was the undisputed victor of the humiliation contest. John de Winter was, at a guess, five or six years old and as the boy gazed around the palace, his blue eyes wide with excitement, Athos knew, without doubt, that he was a de la Fère.

There was a pull between Athos and his wife that could never be resisted and, drawing Anne away from the crowd, he led her to a quiet vestibule in the servants’ area.

“Is the boy mine, or does he belong to Thomas?” he demanded, his hand encircling her upper arm.

“I never slept with your brother.” The look she gave him was full of bile and truth. “But your question is without merit because John is _mine_. He’ll never be yours and he’ll never know that you’re his father. He was in my belly the day you ordered me hanged.” She took hold of his hand and wantonly sucked his index finger into her mouth. “The only thing you may have of me is my cunt.”

Lifting her skirts Athos picked her up and pressed her against the wall. He freed himself from his breeches and, ripping away their underthings, thrust deep inside her body with a groan of anguish. Loosening his doublet she bit into his throat and gouged channels out of his skin, as if he _needed_ any further marking as hers.

“Show me to the Queen’s dressing rooms,” she demanded once they were done and had returned to the main thoroughfare of the palace. “I'd like to make myself decent.”

“I’m certain you know the way as well as anyone,” said Treville, who had been lying in wait for them. “And Comtesse de la Fère? I suggest you break off your engagement to the Marquis before I inform the King of your bigamous nature and criminal past.”

Once she’d gone, sashaying her way furiously down the corridor, Treville turned to Athos. “It’s not my business to come between a man and his wife, but when the woman in question is Milady de Winter I have no other recourse.” That look of compassion was back in his eyes. “Athos, she’s sapping you of your spirit. Spend the evening with Aramis and Porthos. Get drunk and tell them your troubles, but do _not_ go to her bed. She is poison.”

“Is that an order, Sir?”

Treville shook his head. “Consider it a request from a friend.”

 

\---

 

Having followed the captain's suggestion to the letter, Athos sat in a private corner of the alehouse, staring into his cup of wine and thinking about his son, wondering if anyone else at court had noticed the strong, physical resemblance between them. He was so lost to his thoughts that he was startled when Aramis began to speak. He hadn’t even noticed his friend arrive at the table.

“Your boy’s a merry little fellow. He was charging around court with the King’s nephew as if he owned the place.” Aramis could always be guaranteed upon to get down to the nitty gritty of a matter in the blink of an eye. “Did you know of him before today?”

Athos swallowed a mouthful of wine. It tasted as sour as vinegar. “I had no idea. As far as he and the rest of the world are concerned I’ll never be his father.”

“Then at least we have each other to offload our matching burdens of absentee parenthood,” said Aramis in a low voice. “Look! D’Artagnan’s under the table already. I’m glad Porthos is on duty tonight.” They'd recently set in place an agreement that from now onwards one of them would remain sober on nights out.

“That young man drinks to drown his sorrows and forget. He’ll end up like me if he’s not careful,” said Athos grimly.

“I hope for better things in his future,” said Aramis honestly.

“I’ll be back soon, boys,” said Porthos, approaching their table with a woozy d'Artagnan clasped against his side. “Don’t get yourselves into this kind of state while I’m gone or I’ll dunk you both in the horse trough.”

Strange as it seemed Athos had no desire to sink too many bottles. Whether it was down to the ongoing kindness of his companions, or the desire to become a responsible father, albeit a secret one, he had no idea. Tonight he would drink just enough to allow him some sleep. Calmer than he imagined possible he listened to Aramis talk through his worries and counselled his friend as best he could. It was not easy to advise a man who had committed treason and impregnated the Queen of France. 

“Anne wants me to be there for the child, to love and protect them which of course I’ll do, but I can never be anything more than a bodyguard.” Aramis raised his cup in a rueful toast. "To us. The sad men who are destined never to be father to their offspring.”

“There will be other children,” said Athos without conviction. He doubted it would happen for him, but he could picture Aramis with a handsome brood.

The mood changed abruptly when Aramis slapped a grateful hand of friendship down onto Athos’ forearm and couldn’t help but notice the resulting wince of pain.

“You’re injured,” he said, concern resonant in his voice.

“It’s nothing,” insisted Athos, willing Aramis not to make a fuss, but the man was persistent and, rolling back the shirt sleeve, he grimaced at the sight of gouges and burns.

“Have you done this to yourself?” he asked carefully, his familiarity with the church making him aware of certain practices.

Athos looked away and studied the wall, shaking his head and wishing that he was a stronger man.

“Milady did it,” said Aramis slowly, the revelation coming to him, and it was clear from his expression that he was shocked by the degree of vindictiveness. 

“Drink?” said Athos, refilling their cups. “If it makes you happy then I’ll not go to her again.” Treville had called her poison and Athos knew that no better description of her existed. 

“It makes me more than happy to hear that,” said Aramis. “It would make me happier still if you’d let Porthos and I care for you the way we should have been doing all along.”

 

\---

 

Unfastening buttons and easing Athos free of all his clothing Porthos and Aramis remained silent as they worked, cleaning and applying salve where needed.

“This one’s deep enough to need stitching,” said Aramis, seething with anger as he prepared a suture.

“I’ll bloody swing for that woman,” said Porthos, lying next to Athos in the double bed and watching over him as Aramis sewed up the cut. "Now will you finally listen to what I have to say?”

Athos nodded.

“I chose Aramis because I knew Milady would never be able to kill you in cold blood. She’s far too obsessed.”

As I am with her, thought Athos.

“I never intended to drive you to her bed,” said Porthos sorrowfully. “Just wanted to play her at her own game, but it turns out I was the one who was played.”

“She manipulates everyone and ruins everything she touches. If only I didn’t…” Athos couldn’t bear to own up to his feelings for her. 

“She's your wife and I'd understand you caring for her if it weren't for this." Porthos ran his fingers over the newly drawn map of scars. "You don't deserve punishment, Athos, but you _do_ deserve to be loved."

Athos withdrew. If he deserved love then wouldn't someone at sometime have shown him such? Rolled over onto his back by two pairs of hands he rested a forearm across his eyes, even the glare of a single lantern too bright for his weary spirit.

"Athos," said Porthos, peeling that arm from his face the way his clothes had been peeled away earlier. "We won't let you hide from us any longer."

As Aramis worked diligently, seeing to the raw wounds on his chest, Athos allowed himself a moment to understand what it was like to be looked after. Painful was the word. It was far easier to be a drunken shell of a man.

Bracing himself on an elbow Porthos looked down at Athos, his face a melancholy shadow in the candlelight. "You're a knot that needs unravelling," he said with a sad smile and then he did something entirely unexpected and inclined his neck enough to allow his lips to make contact with Athos' mouth.

Bearded and rough Porthos might be, but it was his gentle nature that awoke a long dormant part of Athos that flared with promise. It reminded him of the kisses he'd shared with Ninon, though full of hope this time rather than a forlorn desire for companionship. He opened his mouth to Porthos, wrapping both arms around him and tugging him closer as they kissed with a growing urgency, and when Aramis curled a hand around his cock and massaged him until he was slick with arousal it seemed nothing more than the natural step to take.

Held firm, Athos finally opened his eyes to this, watching both men in confused wonder as they tended to his needs, Aramis working him off with steady pulls of a fist whilst Porthos stroked him, mouthing kisses over every inch of undamaged skin. After years of neglect it turned out to be the simplest thing of all to lie naked between them and let them show him some love.

After he was done, soaked wet with a flood of come, he tried to return their attentions, but was halted in his efforts. "Tonight was about you," insisted Porthos, stripping off and climbing into bed then washing him clean with a cloth.

"Besides which, there'll be plenty of time in the morning," said Aramis, a twinkle in his eye as he too undressed and slid beneath the covers.

It was remarkable. All the laudanum in the world could not have taken away Athos's pain as easily as his friends had managed in a single evening.

 

\---

 

Athos couldn't be certain, but he had a definite idea that the captain had been fully briefed on the extent of his wife's cruelty. Rather than finding it an intrusion he was instead relieved when Treville petitioned the King for her expulsion from France, his relief doubled when the order was granted.

The Musketeers escorted Anne's carriage to the docks at Calais where a ship was waiting to take her and John across the channel to England.

"You’ll not see your son again," she said to Athos with defiance in her eyes.

"You would not have allowed me to see him anyway," answered Athos, watching the boy board the ship, full of excitement about his forthcoming adventures. Don't taint him, he wanted to say. Don't corrupt him like you do everything else.

"You'll never have me again." She brushed a kiss across his cheek and he was reminded, not for the first time, of a cat toying with its prey.

"That's no bad thing, Anne," he said slowly. "We only hurt each other more each time we’re together. This way you can forget about hating me and concentrate instead on looking after our child."

The four Musketeers waited at the quayside until the tide was high enough and the captain was ready to make sail. Athos had failed before to see Anne off; he'd not make the same mistake again.

"She's gone," said Porthos, watching with undisguised relief as the white sails of the Goélette disappeared from view.

"She'll be back," said Athos with certainty, "but hopefully not for a while."

"When she does return she'll have us to deal with," said Porthos, slinging an arm around Athos’ shoulders as Aramis took a firm hold of his waist, both men signalling their intention to keep him safe at all costs.

Oblivious to what had occurred between his three friends d’Artagnan walked behind them, whistling an unmelodious tune as he strolled through the docks, past the copious brothels and gambling dens of Calais.

“You’re happy, young man,” said Aramis, looking over his shoulder. “Could it be that the lovely Constance has, once again, fallen for your charms?”

D’Artagnan smiled dreamily. “Not only that, but she’s told Bonacieux to stop blackmailing her and to get on with his business while we get on with ours.”

“Despite everything we are the luckiest of men,” said Aramis with a broad grin.

”I’ll drink to that,” said Porthos and Athos would have agreed wholeheartedly with this statement except that, for once, he felt no desire for a bottle.

 

\---end

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt: _Milady makes one final play against Athos before she leaves France. With the boys hungover from drowning their respective sorrows, she finds it easy to take Athos and Aramis prisoner and demands that Porthos and d'Artagnan (possibly Treville as well) meet her. When they turn up to the place she is holding them, Milady has a loaded pistol and says that one of her prisoners has to die and one gets to live - they must choose who.Distraught, d'Artagnan refuses but Porthos chooses Aramis without a second's hesitation. He tells Athos emotionally that he's sorry, he truly is, but as much as he cares about Athos, Aramis just means more him.Resigned, Athos is ready to die, but in one last twist, Milady frees them both, telling Athos that he was the least loved at La Fere (where everyone liked Thomas better) and now he can live with the knowledge that he is least loved here too.She escapes and the boys are left to deal with the aftermath._


End file.
